My Heart is Stone, and Still it Trembles
by Mummraa
Summary: Javert tries to deal with desires he can't understand or control. Warning: Slash ahead.
1. Default Chapter

Author's note: This is based on the play, not the novel, so events in the story may not correspond exactly to what's in the book. For the record...yes, I'm aware that VH didn't intend any such feelings between these two men (in fact, I think I can hear him banging on the walls of his coffin from here). But hey, where's the fun in fanfic if you can't make your own interpretations?  
That said, enjoy. :)  
  
  
Hot sun beat down on the naked backs of the prisoners. They moved in a line, chained together, ankle to ankle; the clink and rattle of chains mingled with the sound of shovels smacking earth as soil flew through the air. The prisoners were dirty, thin, scarred. They worked ceaselessly, these murderers, rapists and thieves, suffering for the suffering they had caused, paying for what they had taken from society.  
Inspector Javert marched up and down the lines of prisoners. In his hand was a whip; at his hip, a pistol. His keen eyes were ever alert for signs of sloth. His dark hair was pulled back in painfully tight queue, emphasizing the harsh lines of his thin, clean-shaven face. He was young, but already, his features--thin lips, a narrow blade of a nose, and those large, ever-watchful gray eyes--seemed chiseled from granite.  
Javert paused to watch a particular prisoner. This man was 24601: he did not deserve a name, not until he'd served his sentence. He'd been here for four years. One more year to go. *And I will be glad to see him go,* Javert told himself. He was trouble, that one; a wildness burned in his eyes, like the fires of hell. He rarely spoke, but his eyes constantly mocked Javert.  
The inspector stood, clutching his whip, watching as 24601 shoveled alongside his fellow prisoners. His body was hard, lean but not emaciated; muscles bunched and shifted beneath the sun-bronzed skin, beneath thin white lash-scars and other, thicker scars whose origin Javert could not guess. He panted in the hot sun, sweat rolling down his neck and back. His long, dark hair was disheveled, spilling across his broad shoulders.  
Now, he stopped, glaring over one shoulder at the inspector. "Why do you watch me?"  
"Because I know you, 24601. Do you think I'm a fool? That I don't see what's going on in your mind? I know you're looking for a chance to escape."  
Valjean raised one dark brow. His eyes moved, taking in the dust and toil around him. "Wouldn't you?"  
Javert's jaw tightened. "No. If I were ever convicted of a crime, I would serve my sentence willingly. But it's a moot point; I am not a criminal. I'm not like you, dog."  
"Of course not. Javert, in his lily-white purity, would never sink so low as to steal a mouthful of bread for a hungry child. Javert would never dirty his spotless hands with so despicable an act. Javert is the law, and the law is never wrong."  
The whip flicked out, quick as a striking snake, and bit into Valjean's back.  
He made no sound, though his muscles went rigid with pain. A drop of water rolled down his beard-roughened cheek. Only sweat, thought Javert.  
"You will learn to respect the law, in time. There can be no excuses for thievery." Javert turned and walked away.  
The day wore on. At last, the sun's torturing fire began to cool as evening spread its cloak across the sky. The prisoners were rounded up and herded like cattle toward the jail, their backs bent with exhaustion. Javert rode alongside them on a young gelding, watching carefully lest any make a run for it. He had no real fear of that; they were almost too weary to walk.  
In moments like these, it was easy to forget that they were criminals, and pity tugged at his heart. He pushed it firmly away. They had turned from the light of their own free will. They deserved no mercy.  
Valjean raised his head and glared at Javert through his lank, sweat-damp hair. Javert held his gaze, though something inside him seemed to soften and tremble. The rebellious fire in Valjean's eyes made him angry, but it gave him other, stranger feelings as well; feelings he didn't understand or trust.  
At last, Valjean looked away. Javert let out his breath. He hadn't even realized he'd been holding it.  
  
The next morning, Valjean made his move. While the prisoners stood, waiting to be chained, he simply bolted like a rabbit. Javert's eyes widened; he hadn't thought anyone would be bold or stupid enough to attempt such an escape, and for a moment, he couldn't move. He could only stare, jaw hanging, as Valjean ran across the open field, toward the woods in the far distance; a lone prisoner, running, unarmed and helpless. An easy target. "Stop!" he shouted, finding his voice at last. In one smooth, fluid movement, he mounted his horse and was off after the prisoner. Within moments, he had caught up to Valjean. "Stop, you idiot, or I'll shoot!"  
Valjean didn't waste breath on words. He didn't even look up as he ran.  
Knowing he didn't have the skill to shoot a moving target from horseback, Javert quickly brought the gelding to a halt, dismounted and raised his pistol. Dismounting had cost him valuable time, and Valjean was ahead of him; far ahead. He gritted his teeth, unable to believe that Valjean's childishly simple plan--if he had planned this escape at all--was working. *Should have shot him while I had the chance...*  
He fired now, and missed. Lowering the pistol, he ran. Valjean was fast, but he had been weakened by his years in prison, and Javert was faster. Once he was close enough, he fired again.  
This time, Valjean went down. Then, incredibly, he stumbled to his feet and resumed running. Javert let out a hoarse cry of disbelief. He flung down the pistol and tackled Valjean, pinning him to the ground. The large, powerful body heaved beneath him; blood and sweat mingled on Valjean's flesh. "You fool," Javert whispered hoarsely. "Why? Why did you make me shoot you?"  
Valjean said nothing.  
  
The bullet was extracted from his shoulder, the wound cleaned and bandaged. Valjean was allowed three days to recover; he was kept locked in a small, windowless cell with nothing but a cot and a basin of cold water.  
Now, he was stretched out on the rack, naked save for a loincloth. His broad back, crisscrossed with old, faded whip-scars, lay exposed.  
Javert stood before him, whip clenched in one white-knuckled hand. "You brought this on yourself," he said. "Don't blame me for what's about to happen."  
"Get on with it." The deep, hoarse voice held weariness, nothing more. All the defiance seemed to have bled out of him.  
Javert clenched his jaws. "Why? Why did you try to run? You had one year left, and then you would have been a free man. Now, you'll spend the next fifteen years of your life in chains."  
"Fifteen..." Valjean's body stiffened, then went limp. A soft, hoarse sob escaped him. "Dear God."  
Javert stood silent, trying to deny what that sob had done to his heart. It should make him glad to hear Valjean sounding so tired and broken. Instead, it felt as if someone had slid a knife between his ribs and was slowly twisting.  
Then Valjean twisted around to glare over his shoulder, and the fire was back in his eyes. "Go on, *scum.* Strike me."  
The whip fell, bloodying Valjean's back...then dropped to Javert's side. He couldn't bring himself to lift it again. He stood, hating himself for his weakness, hating Valjean for making him weak.  
Valjean twisted in his bonds. "Hurry up, damn you!" he shouted. But his voice was ragged, and he sounded close to tears.  
"No," said Javert. His voice wavered. "No more." He straightened and, with a skill born of long practice, pushed his feelings away; into the secret depths of his heart, where his conscious mind never went. When he spoke again, his voice was as hard as ever. "You're still recovering from your wound. In your condition, a beating might kill you. It is not my place to take life, even the life of a criminal."  
Valjean laughed. "So you'll keep me alive, knowing I'd rather die than live another fifteen years in this hellhole, and make yourself look more compassionate in the process. Very devious, Javert."  
The scorn in his voice cut Javert, but he kept his face impassive. "I am trying to save you. If you were to die now, you'd awaken in hell. By keeping you alive, I offer you a chance at salvation. Serve your sentence, repay society, and perhaps God will forgive you."  
"And you're God's closest associate, of course. You must be. You know the state of everyone's soul and their chances at salvation. How convenient, that God happens to think exactly like you."  
Javert's hand tightened on the handle of his whip. "Do not mock the Word of the Lord."  
"I'm not. I'm mocking you, Javert."  
Javert shook with rage. Why did he let this prisoner manipulate his emotions? Why could Valjean move him to anger or pity with a word or glance, when he had spent years of his life feeling nothing but a cool righteousness? Even now, with Valjean stretched on the rack before him, completely at his mercy, he couldn't shake the sense that the prisoner was still in control, still the stronger of them.  
And here was the strangest thing: a part of him liked the feeling. A part of him didn't want Valjean to break...because when he did, that part of Javert would break, too.  
He tried to speak, but the words seemed to freeze in his throat. At last, turning, he walked away, leaving Valjean on the rack.  
  
Over the years, Javert had become a master of self-torture. He did not see it that way, of course, but the impossibly rigid ethical standards to which he held himself were a constant source of pain and self-doubt. Relentlessly, he scrutinized his own soul, searching for some hint of impurity. And on the surface, he found nothing. The top layer of his mind looked much like one would expect it to: orderly and immaculate. But Javert's mind was a labyrinth of hidden corridors and locked rooms filled with memories he didn't want to confront and feelings he did not want to acknowledge. During his waking hours, the things in those rooms did not trouble him...but when he slept, those dark secrets crept out, like poison leaking from sealed containers in the depths of a cool, clear lake. It might have surprised Valjean to know that his hard-hearted tormentor, whose whip he had tasted more times than he could count, often awoke in the darkness with tears on his cheeks.  
Now, Javert knelt by his bedside, hands clasped, eyes closed as he silently prayed. He prayed for guidance, for control, for strength and discipline. He prayed for the soul of 24601. Then he climbed into bed and slept.  
If someone asked Javert if he was afraid of hell, he would have smiled and said that the righteous need not have such fears...but when he slept, he was often haunted by visions of fire and flesh-eating worms, of chains and whips, of being eaten alive by monstrous bird-headed things and leprous demons. When he woke from these dreams, shaking and sobbing softly, he would hurry to the window and look out at the stars, glowing soft and clear against the blackness. He would pray feverishly, tears burning in his eyes: *Oh Father, what have I done to offend you, that you would send me such dreams? I've tried to be a good Christian. Please help me, spare me, help your child, save me from hell.* He would pray, and when at last the fear began to fade, he would climb back into bed and fall asleep. The next morning, memories of those times would be dim, like something seen through dirty glass...but the fear remained always, buried in the locked rooms of his heart where his waking mind never went.  
Tonight, however, his dreams were sweet.  
Warm, strong hands caressed him, awakening a flutter of pleasure in his belly; a feeling so foreign it was almost frightening. But the fear melted as the unseen lover pressed a firm kiss to his throat. He felt the rub and scratch of a beard against his skin, smelled the musk of male flesh. The hands settled on his shoulders, rubbing and kneading gently, then one slipped down to touch him so intimately that he gasped.  
He knew those hands...the hard, calloused palms, the long fingers and prominent veins, the nails broken and ragged from hard work.  
He woke sweating, his heart beating so hard that he could feel it in his throat. Shaking, he threw off the covers, got out of bed, and stood before his wash-basin, splashing cold water over his face. He looked into the mirror, at his own pale face. His hair, freed from its usual tight queue, was wild and disheveled, his dark gray eyes wide and haunted.  
He had dreamt of making love to Jean Valjean.  
He felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach. His guts knotted, and he emptied his stomach into the basin, as quietly as possible. A soft, choking sob escaped him. "God forgive me," he moaned. 


	2. 

The next few weeks were torture. Valjean, it seemed, was everywhere, and Javert couldn't stop watching him, couldn't stop thinking about him...about what it would feel like to be held, touched, kissed...to see those dark eyes looking at him with warmth instead of hatred.  
His own longings repulsed him. He wanted, above all things, to be a good man, a righteous man, and he knew God would never condone such desires--but he couldn't control them. No matter how hard he prayed, how desperately he begged God to take away his sickness, the dreams returned to him again and again. He was ashamed of how good they made him feel.  
He had begun to wonder, madly, if Valjean was the devil himself, come to tempt Javert away from the path of the light.  
As always, he hid his emotions from the rest of the world, keeping them locked safely behind a cold, rigid mask. Even so, the mask couldn't hide everything; when he saw Valjean, his mouth would run dry, his heartbeat quicken. He found himself praying that Valjean would not meet his eyes, yet hoping fervently that he would...and when those eyes did happen to meet his, his heart would tremble. He felt as if Valjean could see everything inside him, strip away his shields with a single glance.  
At the end of a particularly long and hard day, he broke at last and went to town, to a tavern he'd seen other men frequenting. Javert had never been there himself, of course; he abstained from alcohol and revelry as strictly as he did from pleasures of the flesh. But he desperately needed the numbness that alcohol was reputed to bring. He was going mad.  
Javert entered the tavern, feeling awkward and out of place. All around him, men roared with laughter and guzzled ale; scantily dressed women flirted shamelessly, their skirts hiked up to show off their plump, white thighs. Javert quickly averted his eyes, though he felt no lust. Not, he knew, because he was a better man, but because his desires ran toward something more shameful by far.  
He sat at an empty table in the corner of the room, head bowed, trying to ignore the rampant sin around him. A serving-maid appeared, her generous bosom all but hanging out of her flimsy dress. "What can I get you, my handsome Monsieur?" She batted her over-long lashes and smiled.  
"Ale," he said.  
"Is that all?" She stepped forward, until her lightly heaving breasts hovered inches from his face. "Perhaps something else catches your fancy?"  
"Just ale." He lowered his eyes, a flush spreading through his cheeks and into his ears.  
"As you wish." She gave him a knowing smile, then walked away, hips swaying.  
As Javert sat stiffly, staring into space, he overheard a whisper from a nearby table: "Never known a man to turn down Asceline before. S'pose he's worried he can't rise to the occasion?"  
Chuckles greeted this comment.  
Javert stiffened. Raising his head, he met the speaker's gaze. He was a beefy, thickly-bearded man with a mouthful of crooked teeth. "There is nothing wrong with my hearing, Monsieur," he said coldly. "I'll thank you to keep your thoughts to yourself."  
The man brayed laughter. "Ooo, ain't the young gentleman *proper!*"  
Javert felt a wave of disgust. When the serving-maid placed a mug of ale in front of him, he pushed it away. "I've changed my mind."  
"So our ale's not good enough for you, is it?" The man rose to his feet. His gut hung out in front of him. Judging from the size of it, he was one of the more well-to-do patrons, or perhaps the tavern-keeper himself. "You'd prefer some champagne, maybe? Well, just let me nip in back and get some!"  
More laughter.  
Javert said nothing. His face was still hot with embarrassment and suppressed rage. He stood and walked toward the door, but the potbellied man stood in his way. Placing his meaty hands on his hips, he scowled, bushy brows drawing together over small black eyes. "So, you think you can insult us and then just walk out, do you?"  
Javert stared coolly into the man's ruddy face. "Do you know who I am?"  
"No, and I don't care."  
"My name is Inspector Javert."  
For a moment, his sneer faltered, and fear flickered in the depths of his eyes...then his expression hardened. "Oh, is that so? I've heard things about you, Inspector."  
"Have you?" he asked, his voice impassive...though his heartbeat quickened slightly. His first, foolish thought was that they somehow knew about his feelings toward Valjean. "Well, I hope they weren't unpleasant."  
"Yes, they were unpleasant! I've heard you're a tyrant, a cold-hearted bastard who enjoys your power too much. Everyone's afraid of you; everyone treads lightly around the great Javert. Well, I'm not afraid! Go ahead and arrest me!" The smell of ale was thick on his breath, and Javert wrinkled his nose.  
"Believe me, if I could arrest someone for drunken idiocy, I would," he said. "Stand aside, Monsieur."  
The man held his ground. Javert tried to step around him, but the man followed his movements, remaining in front of him. The other patrons cheered, stabbing the air with their fists, whipped into a drunken frenzy at the possibility of a fight.  
The man lifted his chin proudly. "Come on, you great bloody government lapdog! Strike me, if you dare!"  
Javert's hand tightened into a fist and flicked out, whiplash quick; there was a sound like a branch snapping, and then the man was on the floor, howling, blood running from his mouth and nose. Javert stared down at him. He placed the silver head of his cane atop the man's large belly and pressed down until the man gurgled. More blood ran from his mouth. "You fool. I could have you thrown into Toulon." He glared for a moment...then withdrew his cane. "But I'll let you off with a warning, because you're too stinking drunk to know what you're doing." He stepped over the man and walked out the door. The patrons stared after him in stunned silence.  
A part of him enjoyed their fear; fear was respect, or at least, the closest thing to respect that these scum understood. A deeper part of him felt cold and sick, and very alone.  
Then he thought of the man's drunken braying, and his nose wrinkled with contempt. So what if they did hate him? So what if they couldn't understand that it was people like him who protected them from the scum of the world, who maintained law and order so they didn't have to fear for their skins when they ventured outside their homes? Let them insult him; let them call him a heartless tyrant. He cared not.  
He cared not.  
  
Alone at home, he ate a small, late dinner. As usual, it took him a long time to eat, for before he touched his food, it had to be just so; potatoes in one corner of the plate, meat in another, butter spread thinly and evenly over his bread, napkin spread on his lap, silverware aligned. None of the food must touch.  
It was one of his peculiarities, and one of the reasons he always ate alone. He knew it must look strange to others, but he found the ritual oddly comforting. His desire for order and regularity extended even to the dinner table.  
He prayed, ate. Slept.  
Dreamt.  
  
Javert did not think much about his childhood--or at least, he tried not to. He had no interest in analyzing himself, and there were not many pleasant memories to dwell on.  
As a boy, he had been small, thin, and quiet. He lived with his mother, who worked in a factory and whored a little on the side. There was very little to eat; what little they made, she drank away, and what little she did not drink, it seemed, was always stolen.  
One afternoon, she sent him out to market with a few francs, and on the way there he was attacked by a group of older boys. They beat him badly, took his money, and left him bleeding in the street. He could hardly see; both his eyes were swollen shut. His arm hung limp at his side and refused to work. He struggled to his feet and tried to make his way homeward, but it soon became apparent that he was lost. He leaned, shaking, against the side of a building. Men and women hurried past, ignoring his cries for help. Evening came. Too weak to stand, he lay beside the street, now silent and convinced he would die here.  
Then a hand had touched his shoulder, and a deep, warm voice spoke. "Can you hear me, boy?"  
He opened one eye a crack. A man hovered over him. He was young, though he had a beard, and his eyes were blue. The boy tried to speak, but his bloodied mouth would only produce slurred, incoherent syllables. He had trouble forming the words in his head, as well; his thoughts felt woolly.  
A hand slid behind the boy's head, carefully tilting it back. The rim of a canteen touched his lips, and he drank in great, eager gulps. The man pulled the canteen back, and he made a small sound of protest. "Shhh...not too much. You'll get sick." A strong arm slipped around his waist, helping him to his feet.  
The boy staggered along at his side, supported by the man's arm. They came to a building with light in the windows. The man led him inside and had him lay down on a cot. There was another man there, one with gray hair, small eyes and a large, hooked nose. He looked the boy over and probed his injuries, making him whimper. The two men spoke quietly for awhile, said something about notifying his mother and father. Then the man-the first man-knelt by the side of the cot and took the boy's hand. His palm was broad, rough and warm. "It will be all right. We'll see to your injuries, and take you back home. Can you tell me your name?"  
"Alain." His voice was a hoarse whisper. "Alain Javert."  
"And your parents' names?"  
"My mother's name is Abelle. I...I don't have a father."  
"I'm sorry." His voice was so deep, but so gentle; the boy was almost hypnotized by it. In his experience, deep voices were usually angry and rough, something to be feared. "We'll send someone to tell your mother you're here; I'm sure she's worried about you by now. In the meantime, this man is going to tend your injuries."  
"Is he a doctor?" Alain bit his lower lip. "We can't afford a doctor. I...I don't want to put my mother in debt..."  
"Shhh. Don't worry about that. I'll pay his fee."  
"Out of the way," said the doctor. His voice was brisk, but not unkind. "If I'm going to treat this boy, I can't have you hovering over him." The man moved aside, and the doctor stepped forward, wrapping his hands around Alain's shoulder; they were thin, spidery hands, withered and laced with veins. They first probed lightly, then squeezed, making Alain gasp with pain. "The bone is dislocated," he said. "It needs to be reset. It's best if we do it right away."  
Fear gripped Alain's heart, and his insides felt cold. The big man's hand closed gently around his, and Alain clung to it.  
"I'll need your help," the doctor said, looking at the man. "Hold his arm, like so. Now, push. Push!"  
The pain began. He heard his bones grinding against each other as the man slid the dislocated shoulder back into place. Alain screamed until merciful blackness swallowed him.  
  
When he woke, someone was wiping his brow with a cool, damp cloth. He tried to open his eyes; the lids were still swollen, but he managed to get one open halfway. His arm had been bandaged, and the blue-eyed man sat by his bedside.  
"Ah, you're awake," he said. "Here; the doctor said you're to drink this." The man held a mug of something hot to his lips. Alain wrinkled his nose in anticipation of something foul, but he was surprised to find that the medicine-if that's what it was-was sweet, as if someone had mixed in honey.  
Once he'd finished drinking, the man set the mug aside. "How do you feel?"  
"I'm fine, Monsieur," he replied automatically, and flushed when the man chuckled.  
"You've a stout heart, young Javert, but if you feel fine after a beating like that, then I'm a wood-pigeon. The drink should help, though. I'm Inspector Cloutier, by the way."  
"Pleased to meet you." He hesitated, feeling awkward and shy. "Thank you for helping me. I thought I was going to die. I think I might have, if you hadn't come."  
"I thank God I happened to be passing by, then," the man said, his blue eyes grave. "Who did this to you?"  
"I don't know. Older boys. I'd never seen them before." A dull, hopeless anger flashed inside him, making his chest tighten. "They took my money. We worked so hard for it, and it was all we had, and they just...took it. I tried to fight them, but..." He shrugged with his good shoulder, staring at the wall.  
"Can you remember what they look like?"  
"I guess so. Why?"  
"If they hurt you and took what was yours, they ought to be punished. I'm a constable; it's part of my job to see that that happens. To protect the rights of innocent people like you. If I find those boys, they'll go to prison for what they did."  
Alain looked up at Cloutier with wonder. In his eyes, the man had suddenly become a sort of knight. He'd never thought of constables like that; never thought of them at all, really.  
"Can you describe them for me?" Cloutier asked.  
"I...I think so..." Alain closed his eyes, thinking, trying to bring an image of his attackers into his mind. He trembled a little at the memory. "One of them had black hair and a scar on his face. Or maybe it was the blond one." He bit his swollen lower lip, frustrated; the memories danced just out of reach of his pain-muddled mind. "I know *one* had a scar. A-and he was kind of tall...damn! Can't remember..."  
"Easy." He laid one large hand on Alain's uninjured shoulder; the gesture calmed him, and his pulse stopped jumping in his throat. "You can tell me later, when the pain's not so bad."  
Alain nodded. His shoulder throbbed dully. He wouldn't be able to work for some time; he'd be a burden. And he'd been carrying a lot of money, almost a whole week's pay. They were up to their necks in debts as it was, and now they wouldn't have any food for the next week. They'd have to beg crusts from the neighbors. Tears stung his eyes, and he closed them, ashamed. "I wish I *had* died," he said without thinking.  
"You mustn't say that," Cloutier said quietly, firmly. He dipped the cloth, wrung it out, and wiped the fresh pain-sweat and tears from Alain's face. "We are all put on this earth for a reason. Our lives are given to us by God; to throw that gift away is a sin."  
"What's my purpose, then?" The question was half a challenge, half wistful pleading.  
"That's not for me to say. It will be revealed to you; truth is given to us all in our time. Would you like something to eat? Some soup, maybe?"  
Alain's stomach rumbled. How long had it been since his last meal? A day, at least. "I can't pay..."  
"Don't worry about it." He winked. "Consider it part of the medical bill. Then, once you've got some food in your stomach, we'll take you back to your mother and f-to your mother." He cleared his throat. "She's already been notified; she knows you're safe."  
"Father," he murmured. "You were going to say 'father.'"  
An awkward pause. "If it means anything, I know what it's like to lose a father."  
"I didn't lose him. I never knew him." The heat of shame rose into his face. He was afraid he might see disgust in Cloutier's face, but for some reason, he felt compelled to tell him the truth. "I don't even know who he is."  
"I'm sorry for that. Every child ought to have a father around...but it's no fault of your own."  
Alain swallowed hard, his throat suddenly tight. "I wish you were my father." He immediately wished he could take the words back; it was a silly, babyish thing to say.  
Cloutier looked at him quietly for a long moment. Then he took something from around his neck--a little silver cross on a silver chain--and placed it in Alain's hand, folding the boy's thin fingers around it. "I want you to keep this," he said. "It will remind you that there is a purpose to all this, though it may not seem so at times. It will remind you that you *do* have a Father, even if you can't see Him." He stood. "I'll get you that stew."  
He brought a bowl of rich, steaming broth, which Alain ate. Just moments after he'd scraped the last bite from the bowl, he heard the clatter of hooves on cobblestones from outside the window.  
"Ah, here they are now," said Cloutier. "Come on; let's take you home."  
  
Several weeks passed before Alain could work, or do anything remotely useful, again. The doctor had given his mother strict instructions that he was to take it easy while his injuries healed, and that he was not to use the arm, or the shoulder-joint might slip out of place again. As a result, he was left alone for long stretches of time while his mother worked. He'd developed a slight fever, and his sleep was often troubled by nightmares. When he woke from these, sweating and shaking, he would clutch the tiny cross that Cloutier had given him; warm from his body, the metal burned its shape into his palm, and strength seemed to seep from the cross into his arm and throughout his body. He often fell asleep with it clutched tight in his fist.  
One evening, he woke to the feeling of someone prying his fist open. "Why, what's this?" said his mother's voice. "What have you been hiding from me, Alain?" She took the cross and studied it, fingering the chain. "By God, is this real silver? No, no, it can't be, but still...where did you get this?"  
"Inspector Cloutier gave it to me," he said warily. "It's mine."  
"We could get ten francs for it, at least. Maybe even enough to make up for what you lost."  
*What you lost...* The words stung, but he refused to bend. "It's mine. You can't sell it." He gripped the chain, trying to pull it from her.  
"Don't be a fool. Would you rather starve? Would you rather eat the moldy stew the neighbors leave out for their dogs?" Seeing the unwavering look in his eyes, she tried again: "Do you think God would want you to let your mother go hungry? Your own mother, who brought you into the world, who always made sure there was a roof over your head and clothes on your back, even though she had so little money?"  
"We'd *have* money if you didn't drink so much!" he burst out.  
Her eyes widened in shock...then rage slowly twisted her face. "Give it to me, you little bastard!" She tangled her fingers in the chain, yanking; the chain bit into his neck, half-strangling him.  
Alain pulled back, blinded by tears. "Yes, I'm a bastard!" he shouted back. "And whose fault is that, mother? Whose fault is it that I was born in a dirty cell in Toulon and never even met my father?"  
She struck him with the back of her hand; the blow landed on his swollen, bruised right eye, and a horrible red pain exploded in his head. His mother yanked the chain so hard that it snapped, and silver links flew through the air. With the cross clutched in her hand, she ran from the house.  
Alain broke down into tears.  
His right eye quickly swelled shut again. When it finally opened, weeks later, it saw nothing but dim shape and movement, and remained that way until the day he died. He hid this from the rest of the world, as he hid all the things he perceived as weaknesses, and no one (save a single man) ever found out.  
And to the day he died, Javert never knew whether his small disability was the fault of his mother or his nameless attackers.  
As for Inspector Cloutier, Javert saw him only once after that. Alain was walking to his job at the factory, and Cloutier had happened to be on patrol. Alain's face lit up like a firefly at the sight of him. He waved; Cloutier looked up and smiled. Alain ran toward the inspector. His first impulse was to hug him, but he stopped himself. "Good morning, Monsieur," he said shyly.  
"Good morning, young Javert. How's that arm healing up?"  
"It feels much better. I can lift it without pain."  
"That's good to hear." His face grew serious. "We haven't caught those thieves yet, I'm afraid, but we won't stop looking. Rest assured, we'll see them behind bars. And now, I'm afraid, I must go; I'm on patrol."  
"Yes, Monsieur," said Alain, though his heart ached with disappointment.  
Cloutier walked on, and that was the last Alain ever saw of him. A few weeks later, when he gathered up the courage to inquire about him at the police-station, they told him he had been killed while trying to subdue a mob. Alain listened expressionlessly, thanked them for the information, and walked out of the police station. Later that night, as he lay alone in bed with his face buried against a pillow, he sobbed until his throat was raw and his chest hurt from trying to hold it in.  
He clung to his memories, few though they were, but even the most powerful memory is not immune to time...and gradually, the inspector's face grew dim in his mind. He remembered the eyes, though; enough to feel a bone-deep shock when he saw them staring back at him, years later, from the face of a convict.  
It could not be the same man, of course. If Cloutier had lived, he would be old by now. It was unlikely to be a relative, either, for the two men came from entirely different stock. Still, the resemblance was there: the eyes, and the beard, and the familiar quirk of the mouth on the rare occasions when he smiled.   
The man, of course, was Jean Valjean. 


	3. 

"He never smiles, does he?" said Valjean.  
Javert was walking up and down the lines of prisoners, stiff and impeccable as ever in his clean uniform, its silver buttons gleaming in the sun.   
"Don't think our dear warden has ever smiled in his life," snorted 35987. "Always looks like he's been sucking a mouthful of lemons."  
The two prisoners sat side by side in the shade of an outcrop, still in chains. Valjean held a flat, hard slab of bread in both hands; a loaf not so different from the one which had landed him in this hellhole. They had fifteen minutes to eat and rest, and then it was back to work. Back to the never-ending toil under the lash.  
Valjean tore off another bite of leather-hard bread and chewed, grimacing. Javert's shadow fell over him, and he looked up, boldly meeting the warden's eyes. "Enjoying your lunch, 24601?"  
Valjean swallowed the gluey lump. "Delicious. Give my compliments to the chef. Only, ask him if he could possibly make it a bit harder next time; I still have a few teeth intact."  
Javert placed the end of his whip-handle beneath Valjean's chin, tilting his head back. "Why do you goad me?"  
"You're the one who started this conversation. If anyone's goading anyone here, I think it's you." He held the warden's gaze. "Why have you singled me out, Javert?"  
"Because you persist in defying me." The smooth, blunt wooden handle pressed harder against his windpipe, making him grimace with pain. "You will learn to respect the law. In time, I will see you humbled and begging God for forgiveness."  
"You will never break me," Valjean said, his voice cool and level.  
"You're a fool, 24601." He withdrew the whip-handle. "Even you can't defy me forever." Turning, he walked away.  
"Pleasant fellow," muttered 35987.  
Valjean didn't reply. He watched Javert's retreating back, and found himself wondering, for some reason, if the tall, grim warden had any friends. He didn't seem friendly with anyone, not even the other guards. Valjean was fairly sure he didn't have a wife, either, and a mistress would have been out of the question for a man with such rigid morals. *If that's the case, then he's a virgin,* thought Valjean. He didn't know why that realization should seem important to him, but it did.  
He chewed his bread slowly, thoughtfully, as he put the pieces together in his mind. Javert had no wife and seemingly no friends. He was hated and feared by the prisoners...even by the other guards. His chilly disposition set people on edge immediately; it had probably been a long time since anyone had spoken a kind word to him. The logical conclusion? Javert was lonely, even if he didn't realize it. Perhaps he'd made Valjean his scapegoat simply because he hungered for human contact, wanted to talk to someone, even if it was just to exchange insults.  
Valjean swallowed the last bite of bread and licked a few dry crumbs from his fingers, wondering how he could use this newfound insight. If he could somehow befriend Javert, it would make escape that much easier.  
But that was impossible. Valjean had watched other guards trying to strike up a conversation with the head warden; their attempts had been rebuffed with scowls and curt replies. Rather than attempt to scale the glassy, frozen steps to Javert's heart, they'd left him alone.  
35987 elbowed him, jolting him from his thoughts. "What you thinkin' about, Jean?" he whispered. "Not going to try to escape again, are you? You try that, you'll wind up spending the rest of your life in this place."  
"I have to escape, Iven. If I have to spend another year here, I'll go mad. But not yet. I can't bungle another attempt; I've got to be more careful this time." He'd almost gotten away last time, though. Stupid as it had been, he'd come maddeningly close to escape. Even with a bullet in his shoulder, he might have made it...but then Javert had tackled him, brought him down.  
Valjean leaned back, closing his eyes. He appeared to be dozing, but his brain was still wide awake and alert.  
"All right, you lot, back to work!" a supervisor bellowed.  
Ignoring the complaints of his aching muscles, Valjean rose stiffly to his feet.  
They worked for hours, breaking apart massive chunks of stone with hammers and pick-axes, carrying the pieces to the ever-growing pile.  
That night, Valjean lay in bed, staring out through the window-bars. A hazy half-moon glowed outside. His muscles ached like fire, but he reveled in the ache, knowing he was growing stronger, knowing he'd need every ounce of strength if he was ever to escape. He closed his eyes and fell into a restless sleep.  
  
"24601, I have called you here to..."  
"I know why I'm here," Valjean said. His voice had grown deeper and hoarser over his nineteen years in Toulon, and his beard was long enough to reach his stomach. He looked out of place in the immaculate office of Inspector Javert. "I've served my sentence. I'm a free man."  
"No. You're here because your parole has begun. You will always be a thief, Valjean; nothing can change that."  
Valjean stared at him.  
"What?" Javert said sharply. "Why do you look at me so?"  
Valjean offered a lopsided grin. "Just wondering if you'll miss me, Inspector."  
Javert's eyes narrowed. "Do not mock me." He slid something across the desk. "Your yellow ticket of leave. You must display it at all times, or you will be considered a parole-breaker and brought back to Toulon. Now remove yourself from my office."  
Valjean was escorted roughly away by the guards.  
Javert sat stiffly, looking over his papers. His eyes blurred with tears, and he blinked rapidly until they cleared again. "Yes, you sardonic, irreverent bastard," he muttered. "I'll miss you." 


	4. Chapter 4

20 years later...  
  
It was night, but there were no stars; black clouds blotted them out. There was only the dim, oily glow of the lanterns, glinting dull yellow on the Seine.  
A man made his way slowly along the bridge spanning the river. He was tall and thin, long-limbed, and would have looked graceful if his movements weren't so stiff. His black hair was streaked with gray, his face deeply lined, though not entirely with age.  
Now, he stopped walking and stared numbly down at the rain-swollen river, at the foamy, swirling gray water. It was like looking into his own mind. He trembled, his thoughts and emotions in a whirl. His entire world, his beliefs and values--things which had always seemed so straightforward, so self-evident--were crumbling.  
Slowly, he set his cane down and climbed up onto the bridge's narrow railing. He stood there, eyes closed, balancing precariously on the balls of his feet as he listened to the dull roar of the water. The current was fast tonight.  
*Forgive me,* he thought, and stepped off the rail.  
  
As soon as Marius was safe, Valjean had gone after Javert, following his faint trail through the sewers and to the bridge over the River Seine. His heart raced. For some reason, he felt that it was of dire importance that he reach Javert as soon as possible, though he was probably mad to be pursuing him; Javert had let him go, but that didn't mean he would do so a second time.  
Still, Valjean had to see him.  
He caught sight of a tall, whippet-thin figure standing on the bridge's railing, staring down at the river. His heart froze as he realized what Javert meant to do. He shouted Javert's name, but it was too late; he was already plummeting toward the water.  
Valjean didn't think, didn't hesitate. He ran toward the railing and jumped over. The water raced up at him, then came a bone-jarring impact that nearly knocked him unconscious. He sank below the surface; dark, cold water surrounded him, rushing into his eyes and mouth. He paddled madly until his head broke the surface, and he pulled in a great, gasping breath. The current pulled at his legs, trying to suck him back under, but he fought it, striking out at the water with his legs.  
His eyes scanned the water. He caught a brief glimpse of dark hair before it vanished back under the surface, and dove for it; his hands found sodden cloth and clung tightly.  
For God knew how long, he struggled to keep Javert's head above the surface as the current swept them along. The cold water soon numbed his limbs, but he refused to sink; he paddled madly with his free arm and fought the river, clinging to consciousness by a thread, until at the current carried them to a place where the river was wider and slower. Keeping an arm around Javert, Valjean paddled over to the banks and dragged himself onto solid ground. There he lay for some time, panting, lungs burning. He lost consciousness for awhile, and when he came to, his whole body ached like fire.  
Valjean sat up, vomited water, and turned his face to the sky, squinting. It was daylight, and the sun was warm; he was in a meadow, with the river flowing slowly and tamely before him, sparkling in the sun. It was hard to believe it was that very same river which had nearly killed him. A wide, dirt path ran parallel to it.  
Nearby, Javert lay on his side, still and pale. Valjean rolled him onto his back and placed an ear close to his mouth, but he heard no breath. "Damn," he muttered. He checked for a pulse; it was there, but very faint, rapid and weak. Pinching Javert's nose shut, he placed his mouth over the blue-tinged lips and breathed his air into Javert's body. The narrow chest rose and fell. "Breathe," muttered Valjean. Again, he forced his air into Javert's lungs. "Breathe!" he shouted, his voice rough with fear.  
At last, Javert began to cough. Valjean exhaled heavily with relief.  
*I just risked my life for this man,* he thought. *Why?*  
Javert lay, breathing weakly through blue-tinged lips. Strands of wet hair lay across his face. He'd begun to shiver.  
Valjean looked around. He had a vague idea of where they were; it would be a long walk back home, especially carrying an unconscious man, but he couldn't linger here. It was chilly, despite the sun, and both of them were soaking wet.  
With a soft grunt, he lifted Javert, rising to his feet. The inspector was surprisingly light; he'd always been lean, of course, but now he was thin almost to the point of being unhealthy. That was strange; back in Toulon, he'd always been fanatical about keeping in good physical condition. At the moment, however, Valjean couldn't spare it much thought; he was exhausted, and all his willpower was bent toward putting one foot in front of the other.  
He heard hoofbeats behind him and looked over his shoulder to see a carriage approaching. He waved.  
The carriage slowed, and the driver peered out at him. "Need some help, Monsieur?"  
"Yes, I...I saw this man drowning, and jumped into the Seine to help him. The river took us here. If you could take us back to the city..."  
The man eyed him for a moment, then nodded. "Hop on."  
  
Later, back in his own home, Valjean lay Javert down in his own bed. He removed the saturated clothes and wrapped the still, pale form in blankets. A fire flickered in the hearth.  
Now, Javert stirred. His lids flickered and opened a crack. The eyes beneath were a dark, stormy gray; darker than usual, it seemed. "Where..." He blinked. "Valjean?"  
Valjean nodded, a faint smile flitting across his lips.  
"Why am I not dead?"  
"Because I saved you, of course."  
"You...? How? No one could swim in those currents."  
"I'm strong. You've always known that. How do you feel?"  
Javert shuddered slightly and closed his eyes. "Should've let me die," he murmured.  
Valjean studied his face quietly for a long moment. "I recall something you said to me once, a long time ago. You told me that if you were to let me die, I would awaken in hell...that you were keeping me alive to give me a chance at redemption. Perhaps you were right. I was a different man back then; my heart was filled with hate for a world I saw as cruel and merciless. At any rate, I want to return the favor. I'm no holy man...but maybe, if you help me, I can save your soul."  
Javert looked away, but not quickly enough to hide the tears glistening in his eyes. "I have no soul."  
"You can't fool me, Javert." Impulsively, Valjean gathered one thin hand into his own and held it tight. His voice was deep, soft and gentle. "I know you aren't the machine you pretend to be. You're a man, with fears and longings and passions. Our lives have been bound together for so long; I believe there's a purpose in that, as there is in all things. I'm not going to let you go now."  
Javert stared up at him with something like wonder in his eyes. Then his face began to tremble. Valjean watched him wrestle for control, trying to master his emotions--a battle he lost as he broke down into tears.  
Valjean gathered Javert into his arms, blankets and all, and smoothed his dark, tangled hair. He felt strangely relieved. If Javert could cry--if he had enough humanity left in him to cry--then perhaps there was hope. "It will be all right," he whispered. Long fingers, gnarled with age but still large and strong, slid into Javert's hair. "I'll help you, my friend." 


	5. Chapter 5

(AN: Finally, the next part is done! Thanks for the reviews, everyone. :) )  
  
Javert spent the next few days in bed. He slept a great deal, recovering from the fever brought on by being half-drowned in cold water. His body had not weathered the experience well; though fit, he was no longer a young man, and his bones ached.  
Valjean was always there, talking to him quietly, bringing him soup or bread, adding wood to the fire. Sometimes--when Javert couldn't stop shivering--Valjean held him until he was warm again.  
Javert was too weak to resist him any longer. Suicide had been his last chance to escape his feelings, but now he was too weak to even consider killing himself...and he found, to his surprise, that he no longer wanted to. He surrendered to the feeling of being cared for by this thief; this man he had spent his life hunting. This man who was supposed to hate him.  
Now, he woke to the feel of warm fingers in his hair. He opened his eyes. Valjean sat by his bedside once more, looking down at him with those dark eyes; the same eyes that had so captivated Javert the first time they met, in Toulon. "You were moaning in your sleep," he said quietly. "Were you dreaming?"  
He lowered his eyes and said nothing, but his silence answered for him.  
"Do you wish to speak of it?" asked Valjean.  
Silence.  
"Everyone has nightmares, Javert."  
"It wasn't a nightmare." Javert didn't look up. His mouth had gone dry. This was it; either Valjean would turn away from him in disgust, or... "There is something you must know," he whispered hoarsely. "A terrible secret, which I've sought to hide from myself and others all my life. When you were a prisoner in Toulon, I..." He broke off, his mouth trembling-then forced himself to go on. "I...desired you. As a man desires a woman. The feeling never went away." Shame burned in his chest as he stared down at the covers. He was tensed, prepared for Valjean to recoil, even strike him.  
Instead, Valjean lifted his chin and gently covered Javert's mouth with his own. Javert stiffened, eyes widening.  
When they separated, Valjean smiled into his stunned face. "Why do you think I never took a wife?" he asked. "It's not because I aspire to sainthood, as some think. Women have never held any fascination for me." He cupped Javert's face, stroking one sharp cheekbone with a calloused thumb.  
"Have you ever...with another man?" he said, so softly that his voice was almost inaudible.  
Valjean nodded. "In Toulon, and then again, with a young man, when I was the mayor."  
"And you aren't ashamed?"  
"No. I sometimes wondered if I should be-but I can see no harm in it." His voice was gentle. "I have long felt there was some connection between us."  
Javert averted his eyes. He'd thought that all his resistance had slipped away, but he'd been wrong. "It's too late for me. I'm old; too old to make up for a lifetime of--" His voice caught, and he took a slow, deep breath, calming himself. "You should have let me die."  
"I could never have stood by and let you throw away your life. There is great good in you. I believe that. I feel it." Once more, Valjean tilted his face upward. "Whatever your faults, I have always known you to be a man of honor and conviction. Your standards for others were harsh, but they were nothing compared to the standards to which you held yourself. I still remember that day, so many years ago, when I was a mayor and you came to me and asked to be dismissed from service...because you believed you had been mistaken about my identity. You worked for years to achieve your position. You drove yourself like a slaver. But you would have given it all up to punish yourself for that one mistake." His voice was scarcely more than a whisper. "It damn near broke my heart."  
Javert was speechless. "You felt that way...even then?" he said at last, hoarsely. "How..." A sudden cramp seized his gut, and he groaned softly, rolling onto his side.  
Valjean touched his shoulder. "Javert?"  
Dizziness washed over him, and spots floated before his eyes. "I'm going to be sick."  
Valjean fetched a wooden bowl and held it under his head. Javert dry-heaved several times before a thin, yellow bile dribbled from his mouth; there was very little in his stomach. He grimaced, wiping his mouth. He hated this; hated being weak and sick, hated having to rely on anyone.  
Valjean brought him water, and he drank, washing the sour taste from his mouth. Javert closed his eyes, waiting for the nausea to pass...then opened them in surprise when he felt a warm hand massaging his stomach. He pulled away, scowling. "Stop that. I'm not a child."  
"I know. But it might help." He continued the massage, lightly kneading the Inspector's taut abdomen.  
Javert had to admit, it did feel good. He sighed, submitting, but the scowl remained on his face.  
Valjean grinned. "You always look so intense. Do you ever relax?"  
"No," he replied, without a trace of humor in his voice. "I could never afford to." He felt himself relaxing now, however, tense muscles loosening slowly as Valjean's hands slowly worked their way up toward his chest. The heat from the hearth-fire and blankets seeped into his bones, making him drowsy, and his eyes slipped shut.  
"I just realized," said Valjean, "after all these years, I don't even know your first name."  
"Not many do," he murmured. "It's Alain."  
"Alain." That deep, soft voice seemed to caress the name. "Alain Javert." The hands slid over his chest, rough palms brushing his nipples.  
Javert's breath caught in his throat as they tightened. When those gentle fingertips began to massage one small, hard bud, the confused rush of pleasure and fear left him trembling. "Don't," he said, his voice tense.  
Valjean slid his hands out from under the covers. "Are you...?"  
"Go," he said hoarsely. "Please."  
"Alain..."  
"Go."  
Valjean hesitated...then stood and left.  
Javert rolled onto his side, tears burning his eyes. It had been so many years since he'd been touched gently, and it was the first time he'd ever been touched intimately. God, Valjean confused him so. He buried his face against a pillow, his thin, hard-muscled body as tense as a bowstring. A part of him wanted to cry out to Jean, to ask him to come back...but he couldn't. 


End file.
